The Turning (29 page)

“My name is Trent Cooper.” He spoke around the woman applying makeup. “I’ve been asked to represent the Mundrose Corporation in the broadcast.”

“You’re the group’s spokesperson.”

“Sort of.” That had been Barry’s idea, have him appear on air. Trent had wanted to object. He was too aware of his physical defects, more past than present, but still—he knew when he grew weary or stressed he still had a slight lisp to his speech. And no amount of makeup could fully hide the shadow-line drawn from upper lip to left nostril. But Edlyn had agreed, in a manner that offered no room for disagreement.

“And the young lady who accompanied you?”

“Gayle is my associate.”

“Your associate.”

“That is correct.” Gayle’s presence had made it unnecessary for Trent to explain his exact position to anyone. Being staffed by such an intelligent and beautiful woman who anticipated his every need meant he had to be someone important. By the time Trent had followed Radley Albright into the dressing room, everyone knew with certainty that he was far more than just another corporate mouthpiece.

Albright asked, “So you’ll be on the panel with me?”

“No. They are bringing me on after you’re done.”

“Ah. That is perhaps for the best.” Albright leaned in closer to the mirror encircled by lights. “I have a great deal I plan to discuss about this subject. No need to share my limited time on air.”

The professor stopped because Trent had slipped from his chair and drawn within inches of the man’s face. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

Albright drew back as far as he could. “I say, there’s no need to invade my space.”

In reply, Trent grabbed the paper napkin from the professor’s collar. He lifted his hand into the tight space between them and crumpled it in his fist. “I am the man who signed your check. I am the man who can make sure you never receive a nickel more from Mundrose. Or a second of airtime from any of their channels. Ever. Tell me we’re clear.”

The professor’s swallow was audible. “Of—of course.”

“You have been given three points we want you to make on air. For this we’ve paid you half a million dollars. I want you to pound these home with all the strength in your body and mind. These points and nothing else. Clear?”

“I—Yes.”

“Your job is not to
discuss
anything. You’re being paid to go out there and
bury
this guy.”

“Understood.”

“Good.” Trent rose to full height, snatched his own napkin from under his chin, and turned to the door. “Nice to meet you.”

When Trent emerged from the dressing room, Gayle was waiting for him in the hall leading to the studio. Gayle must have seen his ire for she asked with a frown, “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” Trent did not mind the confrontation. The residual anger spiced the moment. “Everything’s great.”

“Edlyn phoned. She said to tell you good luck.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“She and Barry want to have a word after the reception.” They were going straight from the studio to the music group’s launch party in a ballroom overlooking Times Square. It was by invitation only, but crowds of celebrity watchers had been growing all afternoon.

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“They have a new project they want you to manage.”

Trent tasted the electric punch that came with the realization that it was really happening. He was entering the inner sanctum. The power and the money and even the beautiful woman. All his. “Fantastic.”

The control room was beyond a glass wall to his left. The monitors and complex controls and technicians sat or stood at the room’s far side. Between them and the production staff were three rows of padded chairs. Gayle asked, “Do you want to go sit down?”

“In a second.”

The elevator doors opened and what appeared to be the entire Barrett team spilled out. Trent recognized many of the faces from their video appeals and his own confidential investigations. Which only made the moment finer.

John Jacobs was the last to emerge. Trent stood where he was, glad for the opportunity to study this man up close. The enemy. In person.

Gayle took a step back. Which was good as well. Trent wanted to do this alone. Have the man know him, remember the meeting. One on one. He had never felt more in control. Of himself or his destiny or the moment. It was a heady mix, the power and the friction and the knowledge that this man would soon be crushed. In front of millions of viewers.

“Mr. Jacobs, I’m Trent Cooper.” He reached out a hand, standing firmly in place so the man would have to move to him.

John Jacobs was in his late fifties, and bore the features of an aging boxer, strong and battered and wounded and healed. In a manner of speaking. Even his voice carried the mix of defeat and determination. “I’m sorry, should I know you?”

“I am here representing the Mundrose Group.”

Jacobs accepted the outstretched hand with a hard grip, his skin rough and yet his grasp surprisingly gentle. Then he said something Trent would never have expected. Not in a million years. “We’ll be praying for you.”

Trent had the sudden urge to laugh out loud. But he made do with a tight smile, a practiced New York gesture. Over his opponent’s head, Trent imagined a giant banner shouting to the world his slogan.
Hope Is Dead
. Trent stepped to one side. “I believe they’re expecting you.”

He watched one of the studio gophers hurry over to introduce herself and rush Jacobs down to the dressing room. Then he turned to Gayle and said, “Let’s get started.”

Gayle tapped on the glass door leading to the control room. A middle-aged woman wearing a headset walked over and unlocked the portal. She introduced herself as the executive producer. When the door clicked shut, she remained where she was, staring from the darkened room out to where the people with Jacobs were gathered. The woman asked doubtfully, “Should I invite them inside?”

Trent turned his back on them. “Absolutely not.”

MANHATTAN

J
ohn Jacobs had never been anywhere near the power core of live  television. In any other circumstances, he would have been in awe of the bustle and the glitz, terrified by the prospect of sitting at the conference table beneath the batteries of klieg lights and cameras. As it was, he felt very little. He was led into the dressing room, a fleet of high-octane young people rushing about. He stepped into a small closet and locked the door. He took his time dressing in Bobby Barrett’s suit, a slate-grey with chalk stripes. Some lady kept calling through the closed door that there was ten minutes to airtime, eight, six. As though her real job here was to rattle the nerves of anyone daring to enter the national news domain.

When he emerged, a chunky woman with a helmet of brassy hair waited to work on his face. The woman who had been in previously returned and barked that John went on in four. Aaron stepped through the door and asked, “Would you like some company?”

John waved him inside. “That was amazing, what you said in the car.”

Aaron had a deferential smile, and a rabbi’s way of deflecting praise. A small shrug, a turn of bony hands. “One does what one can.”

The makeup lady inspected John and decided, “You’ll do.”

“Glad you think so,” John said, and pulled the paper bib from his neck. “Thank you.”

The woman must have found something she liked, because she smiled and said, “Go get ’em, Tiger.”

“I intend to,” John replied with an answering smile.

He and Aaron walked the hall and joined the others in the studio’s antechamber. Directly in front of them was a glass wall overlooking the control room. Three curved rows of theater-style seats rose behind three aisles of computers, sound equipment, and rushing people. The front wall had a long window overlooking the stage and the cameras, while above the glass stretched massive flat-screen monitors. More monitors dotted the rows of controls. John found it encouraging, how the sight of the equipment and the tense voices and the tight clicking of the digital timer did not rattle him. Though his heart was racing, and he could feel the tension in his gut, he was comfortable just the same. This coming interview was just another assignment he had accepted that Sunday morning, seated in church, trying to listen to God.

And whatever came next, John was certain of one thing. He would not be facing this alone.

The bossy young woman rushed over. “You need to move onstage.”

“Just a minute.”

She had already started to rush away. “What? No! You have—”

“Back off,” John said, using the tone he applied when a bullying trucker got in his space. The woman backed. “Thank you.”

John turned to the others and said, “Heather, could you…?”

His wife reached out her hands. “Let’s join together.”

When they were done, the woman said in the clipped manner of one born to argue, “You are on air in
one minute
.”

“Aaron, walk with me.” John and the young doctor passed through the control room and pushed through the swinging doors leading to the soundstage. “Any last words?”

“The rabbis had a saying for such times,” Aaron replied. “When they gathered with other learned teachers, there would always be disagreements. Heated arguments. Bitter rivalries.”

The woman led him around the table and seated him in one of the three seats. The world-famous newscaster was seated at the table’s curved end. Between them sat a pastor along with a teacher John recognized from television. The two men started to greet him. John merely nodded and said to Aaron, “Go on.”

Aaron leaned in tight by John’s ear as the woman fitted him with a lapel mike. “The most powerful arguments are best delivered in the softest voice.”

“Let the words speak for themselves.” John nodded.

The woman said to Aaron, “Sir, you must leave the soundstage
now
.”

The studio’s frigid air held an acrid quality, as though the lights gave off an electric odor. John felt perspiration trickle down his back. His heart punched so hard his fingers flicked slightly in time to each rapid beat. He could sense a cloud of dread lurking out in the distance. And yet at the very core of his being, down where it really mattered, he was calm.

He listened as Katherine Bonner introduced her two guests for the show’s opening segment. The famous newscaster spoke with the rapid ease of a true professional. She stated her opening position in terse bites. “The world has witnessed a new phenomenon, one that has grown from what can only be described as humble roots into a cause reaching around the globe. And done so in a matter of days. At its head is John Jacobs, a transport executive from Cincinnati. Many of you have seen his video casts, which have now registered over eleven million hits on YouTube. Mr. Jacobs is advocating a remarkable boycott of all products and companies that sponsor the Mundrose Group. Later in the program we will be hearing from a Mundrose executive. But first, we would like to delve more deeply into what precisely Mr. Jacobs is promoting.”

John recognized the anchor’s slight smirk as twisting her supposedly straightforward remarks into something else entirely. He also knew there was nothing he could do about it. They all were against him. They had all the world’s power on their side.

When John had watched this newscaster from the security of his living room, the woman had displayed a polished charm that ensnared the viewer, drew one over to whatever side she championed. On this side of the camera, everything was different. The perfect hair and the crisp speech and the polished inflection were all part of a mask.

Katherine Bonner then showed the preliminary Mundrose advertisement with the ghouls cavorting through Times Square, all the electronic billboards shouting the same silver message. Hope was a thing of the past. John expected her to then show the response they had developed.

Instead, Bonner turned to Radley Albright, introduced him once again, and asked his opinion of the message, from the church’s perspective. John immediately knew the coverage would be biased throughout. But the knowledge did not disturb his calm. The awareness of his shielded state granted him the ability to look at the two, Radley Albright and their host, pretending to be objective in their comments, and plan his response.

The former pastor was a bull of a man who spoke with a remarkably high pitch, a boxer’s body holding a tenor’s voice. He was reasonable, and he was educated. He spoke in a lilting tone about how any moral system needed to conform to the needs of the present age. Otherwise the culture would dismiss it as irrelevant. He then emphasized how no data supported the claim that entertainment had any impact on individual behavior.

The anchor then turned to John and asked, “Mr. Jacobs, do you wish to comment?”

“I haven’t heard a question yet.”

Katherine Bonner was at her patronizing best. “We allow our guests to respond once the others have spoken.”

But John wasn’t having any of it. “I was asked here for an interview. I agreed to that and nothing more. Ask me a question. I will respond.”

A trace of red seeped through the woman’s makeup. The flush was particularly clear on her neck as she smiled at the person in the middle seat and said, “Dr. Albright?”

“How much theological training have you had, Mr. Jacobs?”

“None. I wish I had.”

“What church do you lead?”

“I am not a pastor, sir.”

The newscaster said, “In fact, Mr. Jacobs, is it not true that you manage a truck depot?”

“Deputy manager. Correct.”

Albright asked, “How large is your congregation?”

“I’ve already answered that.”

“But surely you yourself must see how absurd this appears!” The professor shared Katherine Bonner’s slit of a smile. Two highly trained professionals joined in the distasteful task of putting an errant schoolboy in his place. “No training, no background as a church leader, and suddenly you’re a self-appointed spokesperson for some ill-fated message that you claim comes from above. This sounds like a throwback to the Dark Ages! Surely you must agree that just because some lunatic claims ‘divine guidance,’ he can’t simply spout off whatever he wants.” He turned to Bonner and continued, “This represents the worst face of the digital age, where anyone with a fabricated platform can pass himself off as an authority!”